


+

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Monsterfucking, Other, PWP, Size Kink, it's pretty vanilla all things considered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: “Oh? Is this not satisfactory, Andersen?”“Fuck off.”“You’re showing signs of laziness. Your insults were much more colorful when we first met. Come, Andersen! Tell me the nature of Ashiya Doman. Entertain me with one of your cutting analyses. Speak, and good Chernobog shall consider your pleas.”How the hell was Andersen supposed to deconstruct this clown when there was a finger shoved up his ass?
Relationships: Hans Christian Andersen | Caster/Ashiya Doman | Alter Ego
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	+

**Author's Note:**

> andersen in this fic is [in his adult form](https://i.imgur.com/OQ3JMyG.png), thank u very much. [chernobog is the big guy with the snakes.](https://i.imgur.com/UtKnERe.png)

What was a fairy tale without its monster?

Andersen wasn’t lacking in subjects at Chaldea. If anything, he was spoiled for choice. Where else would an author find Gorgon slithering beside James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime? If he wished to see the embodiments of humanity’s worst, he could turn his bespectacled gaze upon a rich variety of gods and spirits. Kama, who succeeded in becoming Beast III/L; Angra Mainyu, whose misery ensured peace for the sinful; Salieri, warped into a miserable creature by rumors and lies. Any one of these would’ve satisfied his story’s need for a villain.

Then the Master summoned Ashiya Doman.

No, it was wrong to call him “Doman.” This creature with a cruel grin was the worst of Doman – his jealousy, his hatred, his pride, and his regrets – and a failure of a Beast. Andersen knew, because he had studied them with precise attention at the cafeteria. Eyes, feline and shining like polished obsidian. Hair, which curled like black and white seaweed on some days or stuck out like frazzled straw on others. Muscles, bared with planned carelessness, straining at the fabric that held them back—

Andersen’s face burned. He had to be careful, or he’d ruin everything too soon.

He had locked himself in the room adjoining the writer’s study. It was a small space where the writers threw in whatever they couldn’t bother with during their creative processes. Abandoned manuscripts piled up in dusty towers, old and dog-eared books with suspicious stains, a set of old armchairs deemed no longer fashionable. Andersen was careful to test each armchair, to see if they’d squeak when sat upon.

Andersen pressed an ear to the oaken door. All was silent, save for the clipped tapping of Shakespeare’s typewriter. When the playwright was caught up in his work, nothing could rouse him from it. He had time. He took a deep breath and began undoing his pants.

His interest in Doman was purely authorial. Nothing more and nothing less. And an author explored all aspects of their subject. This was what Andersen told himself as he eased into his seat, the cool air caressing his legs.

Much to his chagrin, he was already hard. Andersen slid his palm over the front of his white boxers and his breath hitched. He couldn’t make any noise. Shakespeare might have his head in the clouds, but even he would snap back to earth if he heard anything suspicious.

Andersen should get this done and over with. Yank his dick a few times, call it a day, go back to banging his head over his infuriating manuscript. But he was an _author_ , even when it came to jerking off. Everything had to be difficult because he couldn’t help his desire for stories. He closed his eyes with a scowl.

The thick smell of dust faded into tantalizing incense. He was kneeling in a dark room, lit only by candles, and the lonely moon was visible through a window. Though he wore a loose-fitting robe, it was cold enough to raise goosepimples on his arms.

“Mmm, so you’ve decided to answer my summons.”

Andersen opened his eyes and looked up. Doman stood before him, half-dressed in resplendent silks, shikigami plastered over the right side of their body, accentuating the bulk of their master. Ignoring common sense, Andersen grinned.

“What can I say? We’ve got plenty of Beasts in Chaldea. It’s not every day I come across a failure.”

“Is that so? I would think you’d have your pick.”

“A former Master of mine sought to become a Beast. There’s a lot of similarities between the two of you. You’re both hypocritical Buddhists, you care only about your hedonism, and you’re both undeniably monsters in the truest sense. But she succeeded where you failed.”

The most animalistic feature Doman had was their eyes. At the right angle, their dark irises seemed to absorb light and swelled into something shinier and feral. On his knees, Andersen could see his distorted reflection in them.

Doman’s smile remained. They knew Andersen was tempting them to ask and ask they did. “Well, well, won’t you tell me how she did it?”

“You’ve crammed gods and spirits into your Saint Graph and you still don’t know? Ha! You’re stupider than I thought. It’s love, you miserable patchwork ghost! A Beast born from humanity’s flaws can’t exist without connection to humanity, can’t you see? That is the very core of their being.”

“Ufufufu… fuhahahaha!”

With one long, curved nail, Doman tipped Andersen’s head back to expose his throat. His breathing grew shallow. Doman bent down and whispered in his ear, breath hot against the skin:

“Is that why you’ve come, Hans Christian Andersen? To teach this poor, unfortunate soul what it means to love a human?” They slid their nail along the curve of Andersen’s throat, stopped right at the peak of his Adam’s apple. “Are you going to show me how you love, hmmm?”

There was no question of who was stronger. Doman could tear a demon apart with their bare hands. If they chose to, they could do the same to Andersen. He stayed as still as he could, eyes locked on his tormentor. In the candlelight, Doman’s canines flashed as they talked on.

“You are curious about what I know. Really, you have such a strange way of asking! Please, permit this humble Doman to expound on their knowledge. You are plagued by your body’s restlessness. It is plain by the bulge of your robe. Ah, ah, ah!” Doman pressed their foot’s sole on Andersen’s lap to keep him in place. A violent shudder ran through the author. “Stay where you are. I haven’t finished.”

“Your toes look like they’ve got gangrene,” Andersen hissed. “Get your foot off my dick.”

“A thousand pardons! I wish to deliver exactly what my guest desires, least I be considered rude. Does this better suit your tastes? Chernobog!”

Thick hands clamped down Andersen’s arms. He was hoisted as if he weighed nothing and tossed onto the table. Out of the shadows lumbered a demon adorned in ash-black armor, its cold gaze matched by the skulls dangling from its neck. Andersen scrambled back but Chernobog was faster. It seized him by the ankle and dragged him back towards the table’s edge.

In the trembling candlelight, the mermaid scales lining his exposed leg glimmered sea blue. Chernobog pushed up Andersen’s robe with a calloused palm, affording him no modesty. Every scale, every scar left by Innocent Monster’s curse was for Doman to inspect, which they did with rapt attention.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” If Andersen talked, he could ignore how his stomach burned, or how Doman’s eyes sweeping over his body made it a little harder to breathe. “How cliché can you get? Are you going to bring in the orcs next? Tentacles? Fess up, you scrounged this scenario from a second-rate doujinshi!”

“Mmm? I see. You’re under the impression these are my desires. But this is your dream, is it not?”

The dull slap of leather being undone. Chernobog dropped its armor with a heavy thud that made Andersen’s heart leap.

“You beckoned me to come and come I did. What happens in this dream is _your_ desires, Andersen.”

In that moment, it occurred to Andersen this fantasy felt a little too real to be his imagination. He remembered that Doman was a powerful onmyouji capable of reaching across realms – including dreams.

“You—”

Chernobog pushed open his legs. Andersen nearly bit his tongue. It was too big. Fantasy or not, there was no way he could take the god in. But he didn’t need to worry. Chernobog regarded him with its inscrutable gaze and pressed the tip of its pinky against his entrance. Instinctively, Andersen arched his hips into its touch, breath stuttering.

“Good, good.” Doman was now beside him, crooning with a wicked smirk. “Like a true artist, you prefer a display. You want your audience to see your truth. That is your trade. You peddle truths in the form of stories! I do hope this story is to your liking.”

“It’s trash.”

Chernobog slid in more of its finger with little resistance, up to the first knuckle. _Fuck_. Andersen could feel it filling him up, could feel how his heated muscles squeezed around the god, but it wasn’t enough. The remaining emptiness ached so much. He pressed his hand over his mouth. He wouldn’t give Doman the satisfaction.

“You choose to be silent?” They sounded amused. “What a rare occurrence. Are you shy, Andersen?”

“This is—” It was so hard to think when all he wanted to do was buck against Chernobog. He had to speak fast. “—a laughable setup. A terrible story. It’s—”

“You have a complex regarding your own pleasure. Mmm, I see. Must this be a work of art? This is only lust. It is your body’s desires, not a construction for the masses to partake in.”

Doman reached over and, with surprising gentleness, took hold of Andersen’s erection. In stark contrast to Chernobog, their grip was cold. Different, but not unpleasant, and when they pumped their hand in a steady, meticulous rhythm, the sensation of hot and cold made him tremble. A whimper escaped from Andersen.

It was as if a signal was given to Chernobog. In one swift motion, the god shoved in the rest of its finger. Pleasure popped in his head. Andersen cried out and jerked his hips.

“That’s it,” Doman said. They spoke with soothing authority. “I am talented in many things. Trust yourself to me and all will be well.”

“Please…”

The word slipped out without thought. Doman cocked their head. The shine of their obsidian eyes told Andersen they knew what he wanted. He was filled up with what Chernobog deigned to give him, but it wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough friction, and without friction he couldn’t reach the hazy pleasure that came from hitting his sweet spot.

“Oh? Is this not satisfactory, Andersen?”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re showing signs of laziness. Your insults were much more colorful when we first met. Come, Andersen! Tell me the nature of Ashiya Doman. Entertain me with one of your cutting analyses. Speak, and good Chernobog shall consider your pleas.”

How the hell was Andersen supposed to deconstruct this clown when there was a finger shoved up his ass? He dropped his head with a groan. Doman, with their fine fingers perched atop Andersen’s tip, waited with smug patience.

“Ashiya Doman. Caster of Limbo.” There. Just get it started. Keep talking and the rest will naturally come. Don’t think about how his body’s crying out, how his hands itch to finish the job himself. “You’re a Servant born from exaggeration. A caricature, so to speak.”

This must have been satisfactory, because Chernobog began moving. It pulled its finger out until only its tip remained before thrusting it all back in. It went deeper this time, pushing through his untrained and tight walls, and his thoughts burst into fireworks. Andersen almost wept from the relief.

“You’re… you’re the shadow of a man,” he choked out. “Something born… out of hatred alone…”

“A sentence isn’t enough,” Doman said sweetly. As if to accentuate their point, Chernobog curled its finger. The movement sent shivers through Andersen’s sensitive muscles, which were beginning to throb with need.

“You can’t become—you can’t become a Beast. You’re two-dimensional, you’re only one facet of humanity, you’re—just an excerpt. And an excerpt can’t be an entire story. A whole person. A Beast needs to understand— ah—”

Chernobog was pulling out. Andersen squirmed but it did no good. Gone was the finger, leaving Andersen only with a painful emptiness. Doman clicked his tongue.

“Mmm. A most basic tale, but it shall satisfy. Humans hunger for all manners of things. They’re omnivorous in their desires, yes! But I, Doman, am what you may consider a carnivore. My diet is very restricted.”

Doman looked down at Andersen.

“Shall we feed your hunger?”

The words were already on Andersen’s tongue. “If you’re going to fuck me, do it already.”

“Fuhahahaha! Well-spoken! But I’m afraid I can’t partake. Chernobog, on the other hand…”

The god stepped forward and lifted Andersen’s legs. From the bushy snarls of its pubic hair rose its veined cock as wide as a man’s arm. Andersen’s heart caught in his throat even as his own dick twitched.

“… I’m sure it’ll be happy to attend to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact :^) the fic is titled + bc thats what andersen historically used in his diary entries to indicate when he masturbated. ur welcome!


End file.
